Gone Native … (another short story) …

(‘Island Spirit’ by Canadada)

Sometimes we remember things differently and for different reasons.

It had begun in this way.

Jules had said,  “Use positive, then negative pressure, then finish with positive.”

She said, “Well, in Human Resources we say it differently – we say ‘try to make a sandwich’ – bread, meat, bread.”  Then she put her hands together in prayer.  “Like this.” And she opened them. He responded by saying, “Honey, I was addicted to ‘Let’s Make a Deal’ as a kid, you can’t coax them with childish rhymes. It’s conventional organizational behaviour.”  She countered, “Noise, noise everywhere – and not a spot to think.” He said, “I know you think it’s always some kind of psychic war – a negative mental pollution generated by the corporation, but you’re ….”  “Not entirely,” she interrupted, “I think it has more to do with atrophied DNA from previous evolutions. Think calcified neurons. There’s a name for them, ‘entrons’ I think. Anyway, it’s really a physical problem, not a behavioural one.” He said, “I think you’re wrong Ginny. Bottom line, it’s only ‘dog eat dog’.” She laughed, “Right you are Romeo!” She slapped his bare bum and he, in turn, lunged for her. They made love again.

She heaved herself up from the bed. “I’m getting up now. Alert the press.” Wrapping her dressing gown around her nakedness, she walked towards the window and drew back the curtains. It was still very early. A soft rosy golden light shimmered over the island landscape. The water lapped the rock shore, pecking the shimmering pink boulders with persistent impertinence.

She watched the shorebirds swirl above the out islands, and said, “Why don’t we go fishing today?” Jules rolled over to look at her, “Fish?”

She turned to him, “Yes! Let’s go fishing. I’ll make a picnic.”

He smiled, “Ok. You’ll have to do the worm thing though.”

She smiled, “My corporate he-man.”

She opened the door of their bedroom and shuffled across the living room towards the pantry and kitchen. Oreo, the cat, sprang off the worn sofa and headed for her bare feet, meowing. Ginger bent over and patted the pet, “Breakfast, old girl? Where are the mice? Where are the mice? Come on.” Oreo ran ahead of her towards the kitchen.

The screen door was rattling back and forth on the hook. The wind was coming up across from the mainland and blowing through the backdoor into the kitchen. Not a good sign, a northeast wind usually brought bad weather. Ginger re-fastened the hook securely, then shut the interior door. It should have been closed last night before they went to bed. She’d try to remember tonight, if they didn’t drink too much vino again. She filled the coffee pot with lake-drawn water and turned on the stove. The propane burner sputtered to life, shooting out an irregular flame that settled down to a relatively stable flow. She measured out three heaping tablespoonfuls of freshly ground coffee and popped them into the top of the tin coffeepot. She fed Oreo breakfast, then put away the dried dinner dishes from the dish rack. She thought how she might do a hand wash later. She opened the window overlooking the back deck, just a few inches to let in some of that fresh invigorating early morning air.

Jules entered the kitchen in slippers and loosely slung housecoat. “Feel like poached eggs on toast, bacon on the side?”

“Sure. I’m going to take my coffee out to the front deck away from the wind.”

“Ok, I’ll be there in a sec.” She placed her hand on his hairy chest as she slid past.

Jules poured his first cup and rattled around in the utensil drawer trying to find the poaching cups. They were at the back buried under an assortment of cottage kitchen junk: bottle fasteners, toothpicks and boxed matches. He then heaved out the cast iron fry pan from the lower pot rack and opened up the fridge. He pulled out the eggs, bacon, bread, juice and jam. Oreo swarmed in and out of his legs. He glanced out the window to the front. Ginger was settling into the striped lounge chair, putting up her feet. Her pink dressing gown flapped gently in the breeze. He watched as she brushed her auburn hair off her face. He flushed and smiled at his good fortune, he had finally gotten the girl. She was a beaut too. He turned towards the stove and placed the freshly butcher-cut bacon into the pan. The strips slowly sizzled. He poured another cup of coffee, adding two large spoonfuls of brown sugar. He thought of the tackle box – he couldn’t remember where his father had left it. It might be in the back of the tool shed, or tucked up under the bow of the old outboard. He’d have to check later. He opened the interior back door and the screen door immediately started to rattle loudly on the hook. A gust of fresh air billowed open his dressing gown. He glanced over towards the flagpole. The flag was cracking and snapping in the growing breeze. He looked towards the dock harbour, the boats were secure, bumping abit but nothing to worry about. The water beyond was starting to whitecap. He noticed that the wind had a bit of a bite in it. He pulled his dressing gown taut and shoved the hook on the screen door firmly down into the eye on the door-frame, closed the interior door again and went back to the stove to flip the bacon. He rummaged around for the rickety toast rack, splayed open the sides, and put on four pieces of the store-bought white bread. He turned on another burner and placed the toaster on it. He pulled out another pot to poach the eggs. Where was that tackle box, he wondered.

He heard Ginger call his name, once, loudly and urgent, he answered, “Yes?” He turned. “What is it?” He went over to the open window and looked over to the deck. Ginger wasn’t there. Only her coffee cup. “Ginger?” He opened the window wide. He listened. Only the muffled irritating rattle of that back door. “Ginger?” he called out again. He turned off both burners, lifting off the toast rack, “Honey?” He went through the living room and out onto the front deck, his eye scanned the island left to right. Only her coffee cup. “Honey? Gin?” He walked to the end of the deck and looked down towards the lake. He reasoned with himself that she was closer than that when she had called out. He turned back to the cabin, “Gin?” His eye scanned the building, he looked towards the bedroom, the curtains were open, the kitchen window was ajar. Nothing odd or unusual in any of that. “Ginger?” He walked over to where she had been sitting. Then he saw her.

She was lying face down on the ground, her body bare and her dressing gown jumbled up in a heap on top of the juniper bush. As he rushed over to her, he momentarily thought, my god, she’s dead. As he turned her over he waited for her eyes to open. They did not. She was breathing very slowly. “Ginger – can you hear me? What happened honey? Where does it hurt? Ginger?” He glanced quickly over her body, there did not seem to be any obvious breaks or lesions. No discolourment or disfigurement. Only her right hand seemed marginally swollen. He lifted her into his arms and took her over to the lounge chair. He took off his house coat and placed it over her torso. He lifted her head again, “Ginger, can you hear me?” He gently stroked her cheek, then gently patted her face, “Ginger – answer me – honey please!” He laid her head back down on the lounge chair and stood up. He stood with his hands on his bony bare hips staring at her. He had no idea what he should do. He had no idea what had happened or what was wrong with her. Did she have a heart attack? A concussion from a fall? Why had she yelled out? Had she seen something? Jules glanced back at the house and the spot where he had found her. Her dressing gown was still strewn over the juniper bush. He went over to pick it up. As he bent over to lift the gown from the bush, he instantly heard, too late, the distinct and horrifying buzz, a large rattlesnake flopped out and fell onto the underbrush. In fright, Jules collapsed backwards onto the rocks, losing one slipper. The snake slithered off into the bush. Jules scrambled to his feet and fell back again towards the deck. “Shit!” He sprang quickly up the steps and rushed into the living room heading for the hearth. He grabbed the fire poker and tore back outside. Ginger had not moved and her breathing was laboured. He dropped the poker and rushed to her. He lifted up her hand. Sure enough, two small pinpricks less than an eighth of an inch in diameter were now visible just between her thumb and index finger. He tried to remember what he was supposed to do. Anti-venom shot? Tourniquet? Cut and draw the blood? He tried to think.

It would take almost an hour by boat to get to the mainland. The nearest ship-to-shore phone was thirty minutes away. The nearest doctor and hospital was Parry Sound, three hours by boat and car, one hour by seaplane. He had stupidly left the medical kit in his car. He did not know what to do: suck the blood? How much time did she have?

Jules pulled off his draped housecoat, and lifted Ginger’s naked body from the lounge chair. He took her indoors and laid her out on their unmade bed. He grabbed a face towel from the wash basin on the bureau and tied it tightly around her wrist. He crooked her arm up, off the bed, to slow the circulation. She was unconscious.

Jules dressed quickly in shorts and a t-shirt, he put his car keys into his pocket. He wrapped Ginger in the bed blanket and lifted her again. He carried her to the kitchen, managed to open the interior back door, lift the hook on the screen door and shoved their bodies against the screen. He could hear the door flap shut, then open and flap shut again with a repetitive clatter behind him as he hurried down to the boats. He carefully stepped into the rocking outboard and lay Ginger down gently against the back wooden seat. He untied the stern, moved up to the wheel, started the engine and unhooked the bow line tossing it onto the dock. He reversed his way quickly out of the sheltered harbour. The white caps splashed into the back end of the boat. He changed gears and thrust the throttle forward. The boat lifted up and took off.

His instincts were to go to the Key. There were other people there, cottagers and old-timers. There must be someone there who would know what to do, who could help. The boat thundered over the waves, the belly slammed up and down as it smashed against the white caps. He glanced back at Ginger. But there was only the blanket. Jules let go of the wheel and looked around the boat. Where the hell had she gone? He pulled back the throttle and the boat slithered to a bobbing stop. The waves continued to belt against the side of the boat. The wind was blowing hard. Jules looked back over the water – had she fallen out? No sign of her. “Ginger?” he screamed into the wind.

Ginger placed her coffee cup down on the patio table and gazed out over the out islands. The rocks glistened with morning dew. It was going to be another gorgeous and magical Georgian Bay day. Windy, to be sure, but that was half the fun. From the corner of her eye Ginger saw something move left. She turned her head scanning the rock. She saw it, the island bunny. She sat up pleased. The island bunny had come back. By the end of the summer last year it had learned to take treats from her hand. She put out her hand to it as it leapt for cover into the juniper bush. Gone from her view, Ginger stepped off the deck and walked slowly and quietly over to the bush. The rock was cold and damp under her bare feet. The lichen too, usually so brittle and crunchy, was like soft wet moss underfoot. She leant over pulling back one of the bush branches and murmured, “Are you in there little island bunny?” Before she knew what hit her, the rattler struck. She stared at the snake’s mouth latched onto her hand, stunned, then she grabbed the writhing tail and yanked. The snake let go of her and swung around to its tail. She instantly dropped it. The snake fell full length across the bare rock, twisted, upside down. Ginger’s only thought was to kill it. Kill it. She couldn’t step on it, and there were no small rocks handy to smash it. In that split second, she whipped off her dressing gown and hurled it over the snake area. Then she scooped up the bundled wriggling mess. Suddenly she felt dizzy. She knew she was going to pass out. Jules. She had to call Jules. That’s all she could remember about the strike.

She first came to in the bedroom. She watched as Jules dressed himself. Why is he in such a hurry she wondered? We were going fishing, why was he putting his car keys into his shorts? She blanked out again. She remembered someone carrying her. She remembered the brush of a vinyl windbreaker against her cheek. And her bum resting on a damp wooden bench. Her hand had ached. She felt something cold crawling up her body towards her brain. Slowly, insidiously, methodically, seeking her, wanting her.

She had to escape and quickly. As she slithered over the side of the boat, the blanket fell off. Naked, she could feel the water luxuriantly envelop her form. Rather than struggle with the swell and mad swirl of the whitecaps she ducked underwater and started to swim back towards the island. She moved quickly, effortlessly, naturally. Once at the island she slid ashore and could immediately feel the sun baked rocks warm her body. It would have been nice to lie there for awhile after such a long swim, but oddly, she felt hungry. The spasm in her stomach was demanding. She knew there was food in the cottage, but that was so far away, surely she could find something closer. She started to make her way towards the buildings. Then she stopped. There was a large dragonfly flitting above the tall grass, bobbing from point to point. Maybe if she stayed perfectly still it would come close enough. She shifted her body weight ready to snatch at it. And waited quietly, as still as stone. Only her black eyes followed the darting dragonfly as it came nearer and nearer, blissfully ignorant. She sprang at it and chomped it down in one swift bite. Delicious. But hardly enough. She continued on with her scavenging. Entering into the tall grass, so many ants and insects. Hors d’oeuvres. She could feel something move about 20 feet from her. Something small, rodent like. It was moving towards the kitchen. She too moved towards the kitchen. From the movement on the ground she knew she would intercept shortly. She sped ahead, then stopped and waited. The mouse was scurrying forward, its cheeks full of food. It burst through the grass and stepped directly onto Ginger who struck out and swallowed the mouse in one giant gulp. The mouse undulated down towards her gullet. She lay contented for a time. The sun was getting hot. Maybe a nap now. A long sleep. Better to hunt at night anyway when critters would be active. She thought of the rock barbecue. There was a perfect hole on the side facing the flagpole where she could curl up inside for a time. And she slowly made her way over there.

Jules started to cry. He had spent the last two hours slowly traversing the bay looking for Ginger’s body. Clouds were forming over the mainland, the wind had died down, and the water was calmer, but it would rain soon. There was nothing. Not a trace. He needed more gas, the tank was almost empty. He made his way back to the island harbour wiping the tears from his eyes. He tried to think, to form a plan, but all he could see was her naked body crumbled at the juniper bush. He had thought she was dead then. He tied up the boat. He would retrace his steps, maybe there was something in that. As he wandered back up to the cottage, he walked past the flagpole, it was then that he saw the rattler slowly slithering across the bare rock towards the barbecue. He stopped dead in his tracks. Then stepped backwards, slowly step-by-step, towards the harbour. When below the hill, he turned and ran to the boat and pulled up the emergency paddle. I’ll kill the bugger. He hurried back to the hill and up the footpath. The snake was almost there. Its long sinuous body bulged with a recent meal. Jules moved into the tall grass to the right to come up behind it. He stalked forward quietly holding the paddle ready for a strike. He was within four feet of the beast when it turned and coiled. Its rattler buzzed viciously. He raised the paddle quickly. But too late. The snake sprang towards his shin and struck his leg. Jules slammed the blade of the paddle down onto its back and twisted the edge sharply. The snake let go of his leg and curled in agony around the paddle blade. Jules lifted the edge and brought it down hard again against the rock and severed the snake in two. Mouse blood and innards oozed onto the pink rock. The rattler was definitely dead. Jules dropped the paddle and looked down at his leg. A tip of one of the fangs was still stuck in his shin, he pulled it out, and suddenly felt very dizzy.

Ginger wondered what was taking him so long. She would have had breakfast served up and finished by now. She turned towards the cottage and called out, “Jules?” She looked at the kitchen window, she could not see his silhouette. She looked at the bedroom window, the curtains were open but there was no sign of him. She stood up, “Jules, do you need a hand?” She sighed and opened the door into the living room and walked through to the kitchen. The toast was burning, the water in the egg pan was at a rolling boil and the bacon was burnt to a crisp. Typical guy, she thought, wanders off and forgets the stove. “Jules?” She turned off the burners, threw out the toast and opened the back door to let out the smoke. The screen door immediately started to rattle. She glanced down at the hook, it was out of the eye. She called out, “Jules?” and looked towards the flagpole. Then she saw him. Face down on the rocks.

Leonard Longhouse from the Henvy Inlet Indian Reserve had been out fishing near Fox Bay when he noticed the drifting boat pushing up against the red channel buoy. When he went over to see what was going on, he found both Jules and Ginger unconscious in the bottom of the boat. Both were stark naked. He immediately knew it was the Spirit Bay Rattler. Leonard used his grandfathers’ powers to revive them, then he took them into the Key for conventional medical treatment.

To this day, neither Jules nor Ginger can be entirely sure what happened that morning, exactly. They fixed the screen door and now keep the medical kit on the island at all times. They gave Leonard a 30-ounce bottle of whisky and thanked him for his help. He, in turn, had told them that they had to give the island back. They didn’t know what that meant exactly either.

The only thing they did differently was this: between themselves one night while sitting under the stars beside the glowing barbecue they raised their wine glasses and drunkenly paid homage to that strange bewildering day. They splashed their drinks onto the glowing embers and jokingly re-christened the island ‘Rattlesnake Rock’.

Yet, to Leonard and others from the Reserve, it is still that unnamed centre island of ‘Go Home Bay’.